The Count up (slam poem)

I am 4 leaving the Dominican Republic on a big airplane.
Holding my mother’s hand, I am terrified.
I am given something to sleep,
I wake up in Aruba where another reality awaits me.

I am 6, in the first grade.
Teacher gives everyone a book,
gives me a white sheet of paper
Tells me to draw because I know nothing.
Everyday, after school she calls my mother.
Tells her that she probably was
another Latina that immigrated to iron on her back.

From 8 to 13 my father’s calls become less and less.
I silently decide I am going to forget I have one.
I am 14 wondering
why all my friends have gotten their periods
and I haven’t, they laugh at me getting left behind.

I am 15 getting bullied in class,
so I skip school for weeks at the time,
the teacher says I’m doing it on purpose
Immigrants, don’t get their hearts broken,
don’t need time to heal
I am just a waste of opportunity someone else would love to have

I am 16,
being accused of having an affair with my favorite teacher
by someone who saw me give her a hug.
I am banned from being around
the only person who didn’t make me feel guilt for existing.

I am 17 deciding that I am done
with being the big girl in the room,
I cut all of my food portions in half,
I drop 50 pounds and suddenly
I exist to people who have known me my whole life

I am 18 and I’m in love with a girl who has a boyfriend.
It felt like I was betraying God,
but I couldn’t fight the feeling.

I’m 19 waiting for my papers to be ready,
working for a man who tells me,
his spirits have told him they see light in me.
He calls me a blessing so much I start to believe it.

I am 20 forgetting the pain,
wearing red lipstick and my hair out,
I am healing at a fast pace.

I am 22, telling a story of not giving up,
of never allowing life to make you a victim
Of getting up, and fighting for your dreams

I am 23 and I meet my favorite writer,
she says I am full of joy.
Not in spite of the pain, but because of it.

I agree.